Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  “Well, what do you have planned?” Kate’s raspy voice broke into Waltham’s unpleasant speculation about his none-too-rosy future.

  “Planned?” he asked dumbly.

  “About the chit, damn it!”

  “We’re headed back to London, I gather?”

  “Yes,” Kate admitted, reluctant to divulge any of her plans to this ruffian, about whom she was beginning to have serious doubts.

  “Then I propose, m’lady, that we waste very little time in getting there,” he advised. “I would even suggest stopping only to change teams and sup, but not to stay overnight. A few eyebrows might be raised at sight of Rocco and the girl. Besides,” he added with an instinctive glance over his shoulder, “who knows what’s on the road behind us?”

  Kate nodded. “For once, Mr. Waltham, we are in complete agreement, for I had not thought to linger in the vicinity. I must own to being slightly curious,” she continued in a sarcastically conversational tone, “about what you have planned for our little friend. You are not contemplating taking her all of the way to London, are you?”

  Waltham glanced over at the still form being held so lovingly in Rocco’s big arms. “I’ve got a lot of friends in London, m’lady, and I can count at least a dozen who’d be more than happy to take the little lady off our hands,” he informed her, not really satisfying her curiosity. “In fact, we might even manage to profit by the transaction, if handled properly. Aye, London, ’twould seem, is the place for us, m’lady.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Waltham,” Kate remarked as she settled herself more comfortably in the corner of the coach. Sophia, who’d maintained a discreet silence, turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the goings on, now arranged, with solicitous care, a fur rug across her mistress’s knees. Her only concern in life was her mistress’s comfort. “I can see that I have been hasty in my judgment of your abilities, and indeed, may have sorely underestimated you,” Kate now told Waltham.

  But I haven’t underestimated you, m’lady, Teddie Waltham thought as he leaned his head against the soft leather of the seat. But prudence advised him against slumbering in the watchful silence of the coach.

  * * *

  “It isn’t the horse’s blood, Your Grace,” Butterick pronounced gravely, his words carrying like a death knell through the breathless silence of the stables. Butterick met the duke’s eyes squarely, his big capable hands hanging helplessly at his sides. If only he hadn’t had to tell this to the duke, Butterick thought with a feeling of rising despair, for it was beginning to look bad, real bad, and they didn’t even have any idea of what had happened—except that Lady Rhea Claire and the Earl of Rendale were missing.

  The Duke of Camareigh sighed, but he was not surprised, for he had suspected as much. But what could have happened? The dreaded thought of foul play hung heavy in his mind; but it just didn’t make any sense. No one in their right mind from Camareigh, or the surrounding countryside, would dare to lay a finger on Rhea. She was far too well known as his daughter. So what had happened to her? Had some accident befallen her? Was she lying unconscious somewhere? And where was the Earl of Rendale? What had happened to him?

  “If only the young miss could tell us what happened, Your Grace,” Butterick said, glancing impatiently toward the big house where the unconscious Caroline Winters had been taken. After the three horses had found their way back to Camareigh, he’d sent out a carriage and several footmen and stable boys to find the horseless riders. At that time his fears had not yet been unduly aroused, although he’d felt the beginnings of concern, for both Lady Rhea Claire and the earl were fine riders. For either of them, and certainly for both, to have fallen from their mounts, well… It was a thought he hadn’t liked thinking about. He’d sent a boy up to the house to inform His Grace of the incident and had been waiting for his orders when one of the riders had returned with rather startling news. He hadn’t been prepared for the sight that met his eyes when he’d opened the carriage door to see a delirious Miss Caroline Winters, her blue riding habit muddied and torn.

  The duke himself had carried the stricken girl up to the house, and not a word had been heard from her since she’d been found wandering dazedly along the lane, a dark bruise beginning to swell over her eye. How long she’d been staggering on the road, or from where she had come, they didn’t know. Only Caroline Winters knew the answers to so many puzzling questions, and she was temporarily lost to the world. The doctor had been sent for, but hadn’t as yet arrived, so all they could do was wait.

  “They were bound for Stone House-on-the-Hill,” the duke said, a speculative look in his eye. “I wonder if they ever got there.”

  “I reckon they went to see the elder Mr. Taber about the pups,” Butterick mused.

  “Rhea received a note from the old man requesting her to come. Naturally she went,” the duke told him, a gentle expression softening his face for a moment while he thought of his daughter’s overly generous nature. And it was this act of kindness that may have cost her…

  “’Twas a note from the old man himself, ye say?” Butterick asked.

  “I’m not really certain. Although, now that I think about it,” the duke said thoughtfully, “it does seem strange that the note should be delivered so early.”

  “Aye, that it does, but what has me interested, Your Grace,” Butterick confided, “is that the elder Mr. Taber never learned how to read or write.”

  “Perhaps one of his family wrote it for him,” the duke speculated, not quite seeing the reason for Butterick’s worried expression. But then Butterick was famous for his penchant for mysteries.

  “He’s there by himself, except for a granddaughter,” Butterick explained. “And she’s just a girl. She wouldn’t be knowin’ how to read and write. Most Tabers don’t see any need for it anyway.”

  “Saddle my horse, Butterick,” the duke ordered. “And one for the general.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Butterick said, sending the gawking stable boys into immediate action, “we’ll get to the bottom of this, or my name ain’t Old King Butt!”

  “Oh,” the duke added, pausing in the doorway, “and saddle a horse for yourself.”

  A grin split Butterick’s face wide. “Aye, Your Grace, ’twill be my pleasure, that it will.”

  * * *

  A silence so heavy that it seemed deafening pervaded the guest bedchamber where Caroline Winters lay sleeping just beyond the reach of those standing vigil at her bedside. Although both the Duchess of Camareigh and Lady Mary Fletcher showed an outward calm that did them credit, their fears extended far deeper than their present concern for the girl lying unconscious on the bed. They were both remembering words spoken in early summer. Words that were now, perhaps, beginning to come true. Neither the duchess or Lady Mary had voiced the troubled thoughts that were uppermost in their minds, nor did they need to, for each knew what the other was thinking.

  The duchess watched thoughtfully as Mary touched the soiled blue riding habit that Caroline had been wearing. It was Rhea’s, of that she was certain, although why Caroline should have been wearing it was a puzzle. For an instant, when they had carried Caroline into the house, she had thought it was Rhea, forgetting that her daughter had worn her green riding habit. But then her heart had, God forgive her, leaped with joy when she’d seen it was Caroline. She had been so grateful that it had not been her daughter that lay injured, and she had looked toward the door expecting to see Rhea come striding in. But she hadn’t entered, and no one knew where she was. She and the Earl of Rendale had vanished without a trace.

  Her shadowed violet eyes strayed back to the girl who bore such a close resemblance to her daughter. If only she would awaken and tell them what had happened. The duchess swallowed the lump lodged in her throat as a thousand different thoughts raced through her mind. No, she would not think of the bad things. Everything would be all right. It had to be.

  A low moan drifted from the b
ed, and both the duchess and Lady Mary held their breath as they waited anxiously for some sign of consciousness. But the pale eyelids remained closed, and the lips sealed.

  Sir Jeremy fell back onto the seat of the chair as if his legs had been knocked out from under him. He was taking it hard, and the duchess knew he was suffering, but there was nothing she could say to relieve his mind as he sat staring with red-rimmed eyes at his only child.

  “We shall do all we can to help her, Jeremy,” the duchess told him, trying to reassure him. “The doctor will be here shortly, and of course, we do have Rawley,” she added, gesturing to the sad-faced maid waiting quietly at the foot of the bed. “She is well versed in these matters. We trust her implicitly. You can imagine. Jeremy,” the duchess continued, forcing a small, amused chuckle to her lips, “how many bumps, cuts, and tummy aches she has had to deal with, and not only with my children, but with Mary’s as well.”

  “Aye, right ye are, Your Grace,” Rawley agreed, following Her Grace’s lead. “Why, I even remember once when young Lord Robin took a tumble down the whole flight of stairs, banging his head wide open. Didn’t hear a sound out of him for nearly two days, we didn’t. And then the very next day, while I was dozing, the young Lord Robin just up and gets out of bed and wanders down to the kitchens in his nightshirt. And there I found him, just as bold as brass, sitting there eating a piece of peach cobbler. Aye,” Rawley said with a firm shake of her head, “there’s no better cure for a good bump on the head than sleep, and plenty of it.”

  Sir Jeremy looked brighter as he peered closer at his daughter’s sleeping face. “Do you really think so? I do believe she seems to be breathing easier, Rawley. She’s not nearly so flushed.”

  “There, didn’t I tell ye so. Now we’re going to keep her nice and warm. And as soon as she’s awake, I’ll give her a good dose of Mrs. Taylor’s Special Treat,” Rawley said, warming to her favorite subject, which was the art of healing. “That’ll put her on her feet faster than sitting on a hat pin. I remember once, Sir Jeremy,” she began, nodding to Her Grace before turning back to the slightly bemused but attentive listener, “when I was working as a maid in a London bawdy house…”

  The duchess and Lady Mary let themselves quietly out of the room, leaving Sir Jeremy and his daughter in Rawley’s very capable hands. They had walked a considerable distance down the hall in a companionable silence, linking their elbows together the way they’d done as children when they’d run together laughing across sweet meadows of newly mown grass. The duchess could feel the tenseness in her sister’s rigid arm, and giving it a gentle squeeze, she met Mary’s soft, gray eyes.

  “I know it does no good to tell you this, Mary,” the duchess began, “but you mustn’t blame yourself for what has happened.”

  “Or is going to happen, Rina?” Mary said miserably. “I always tell myself that I should not be so surprised when something from my dreams comes true, and yet I am left stunned by it every time,” she said tiredly.

  “You had another vision last night, didn’t you?” the duchess asked.

  Mary nodded. “Brief images, nothing more. But this morning it was far more terrifying. I saw in my dream that blue riding habit. If only I had known that Caroline would be wearing it.”

  “She could not have been wearing it, Mary. That was Rhea’s riding habit,” she told her, watching Mary’s reaction carefully.

  Mary’s breath caught in her throat. “I have never foreseen something happening to anyone but our family. Why should I have seen this happening to Caroline?”

  “Because she was wearing Rhea’s clothing, I imagine,” the duchess reasoned.

  Mary bit a trembling lip. “Then…”

  “Then the danger was meant for Rhea, not Caroline,” said the duchess, putting Mary’s fear into words. “Caroline just happened to get in the way. But that does not tell us what happened to my daughter,” the duchess said, her voice taut with anger and fear. “I must know what has happened. I have to be able to help her. Now tell me, what else have you seen?”

  Mary sighed. “The usual confused images. An old man. Water. The ocean, I think. A pair of blue eyes. What can that tell you?” Mary demanded, angry at herself for being so unhelpful. “Oh, and one last thing. I thought I was drowning. It was a horrible feeling, all of that water around me.”

  “Well, we can be thankful for one thing at least.” The duchess laughed shortly.

  Mary frowned in perplexity. “What on earth could that be?”

  “Rhea can swim. When we used to visit Verrick House, I would take Rhea and Francis to a forest pool I frequented often when we lived there,” the duchess explained, a reminiscent smile curving her lips. “Both Rhea and Francis took to the water like fish. They used to love it there. So, my dear, it is not Rhea you see drowning. And that, Mary, is some comfort to me, and I thank you for it.”

  “I only wish that I could give you more than that.”

  “For now it shall have to do,” she replied vaguely as they entered the salon where the rest of the family was anxiously awaiting news of Caroline’s condition, and whether or not Rhea had been found.

  All conversation was halted abruptly at their entrance, and all eyes unblinkingly stared at the two silent women. “Caroline is sleeping peacefully, I believe,” the duchess informed them, refusing the cup of tea being proffered by a serious-faced Anna Fletcher playing the hostess in the absence of her aunt and mother.

  “No thank you, dear,” the duchess told her, smiling encouragingly at her family. But when her eyes met a pair of troubled brown ones, her expression changed. “Sarah! What are you doing out of bed? You shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” the duchess told her sheepish-looking sister-in-law, who had risen with the awkward slowness of a woman heavy with child.

  “Sabrina, I know you are concerned about me,” Sarah replied apologetically, but with a firmness to her tone, “but I cannot sit quietly alone in my room, not knowing what is going on. Please do not ask that of me. Truly, I shall be far better off sitting in here with the rest of you than I would worrying myself to death in my room. I’m quite comfortable, Sabrina.”

  “That I cannot believe,” the duchess replied with an understanding smile as she took in Sarah’s well-rounded stomach. “But to please me, and to set poor Richard’s mind at ease, do sit down,” she pleaded as she herself sank wearily onto the sofa and held her chilled hands out to the warmth of the fire.

  “Caroline has not regained consciousness?” the general asked, shifting his stiff leg to a more comfortable position near the fire.

  “No, Terence. I tried my best to reassure Sir Jeremy, but he is taking this hard. He’s lavished so much attention on Caroline that I do not think he would know what to do if she were gone,” the duchess commented.

  “You don’t think she will die, do you?” Richard asked, his spectacles catching the light from the fire.

  “No, I don’t, but one never knows quite the extent of a head wound,” the duchess said. There was a helpless note in her voice. “You’ve seen wounds in battle, Terence. What do you think?”

  Unconsciously rubbing the old wound in his thigh, where he could still feel a twinge of pain from the sharp thrust of the enemy’s blade, Terence thought of all the young men, some hardly more than boys, who’d suffered and died in battle. “She has definitely sustained quite a bump on her head, but I suspect much of her problem—since you have led me to believe that Caroline is a highly excitable young woman—is caused by hysteria. I can, of course, only speculate on what occurred, but I would hazard a guess that she was knocked unconscious, then awoke to find herself stranded in a desolate country lane. Having to walk back to Camareigh, with a head injury, especially for a girl of Caroline’s tender sensibilities, must have been quite traumatic for her.”

  “Whatever it was happened out there, she wouldn’t have been of any help,” James declared morosely, a look of confused anger in his eye
s while he thought of his missing cousin.

  “James!” the general reprimanded him sharply. “That was a contemptible thing to say. I am ashamed of you.”

  James swallowed his tears and dropped his head in shame. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said in a choked voice.

  Ewan and Francis exchanged glances, for although it was not proper for James to have said what he did, they all knew it was the truth. Francis made a grimace as he stared down at his belly: the wide sword belt holding the pillow against his body was beginning to sag alarmingly. Shaking his head, he glanced first at Robin, who was staring bemusedly into the flames, and then at his cousins. Their attire, and his own costume, would have been laughable had not the situation been so serious. They had been in the midst of a dress rehearsal. Mr. Ormsbee had been bustling around, fussing and fidgeting like a hen over a chick, when Robin had spotted the unusual activities down in the stables. And that had been the last Mr. Ormsbee had seen of his amateur actors.

  Mary had persuaded her sister into accepting a cup of tea and was offering refills to the others when the doors to the salon were flung wide and the duke entered, his expression grim. The expectant faces turned toward him did not make his request any easier, especially when he looked into his wife’s violet eyes, for he could never hide anything from her.